Hopeful Soul: A Phantom Story

Chapter Twenty-Two.

RAOUL:

The opera of Don Juan was the most appalling and vulgar thing to ever grace the stage. My brother stood by me in his gendarme uniform, gun in hand, watching the ceiling out of the corner of his eye. We watched the last number cautiously, Christine finally coming out to the stage in a gown I couldn't believe she would wear. The dress stopped at her knee and I could see her entire shoe, feeling my face turn red. That poor girl -  having to expose herself that much on stage.

Her voice, to contrast, stayed innocent and pure as she sang a line that described her perfectly. When Don Juan came out, however, I realized that the voice was much different - it was almost angelic. I also noted that this gentleman was much thinner and knew that Piangi didn't have an understudy. Something was wrong.

The stage movements disturbed me as they each sat on a bench, his hand running from the bottom of her skirt to her waist - but he kept going higher. Oh, how jealous I was. Christine looked up to my box after she shied away from the man and I immediately knew what was wrong - it was him, "Oh, dear God."

"What is it, my brother?"

Philippe looked to me, his gun loaded, "He's on the stage. He is singing with her."

I was distracted by Christine's beautiful voice as she moved reluctantly towards him, probably because of her stage directions. She closed her eyes as she ran her hands across his torso and into his bony fingers. She was afraid, but she also smiled slightly. Something made me wonder if she was acting any more, but then she ran from him. He grabbed her arms and they sang together, her eyes locking onto his cloaked face.

I wanted to help her. I was tempted to tell my brother to shoot him, but there was a risk of shooting Christine and I couldn't take that chance. Their song ended and I was so relieved for her, but he didn't let go. She stared at him like she was being hunted and he finally caught her. Then I realized that her ring wasn't on. What on Earth did he do to her?

She pulled the hood off of his head, which exposed the porcelain mask to everyone. He seemed somewhat angered by her sudden movement and wondered why the stagehand didn't pull the curtains yet. Audience members were confused until she pulled off his mask. This was the opera ghost?!

He was the ugliest creature I have ever seen - a monster described in children's books looked better than this. He was angry - beyond angry. I looked up at the chandelier which began swinging and he cut three ropes on the left of stage - oh, I couldn't believe my eyes.

The smoke was unbearable when the chandelier fell, killing six audience members and creating a huge fire. I could barely see the stage through all the flames, but Christine wasn't here. He wasn't there, either. My brother shot at nothingness, and so did the other officers, "Go, Raoul! Find her and I'll help everyone escape!"

I broke out of the box, wondering where on Earth I could start my search. Where was that Persian when I needed him?

As I went to the backstage area, I noticed him standing aside the bustling crowd. He was right beside Christine's dressing room and I rushed to him happily, "Monsieur! Where have they gone?"

"They've gone underground, de Chagny. Come. We must find the trapdoor in her room."

We entered the dressing room, which was in a terrible mess. I heard the flames of the fire and I searched desperately around the room. The Persian stood at the mirror, seemingly observing himself, "We have no time, Monsieur!" I desperately shouted.

"No, no," he shook his head, feeling the edges of the mirror, "This must be it. It is the only thing that makes sense."

When his hand reached the top edge, the mirror began drifting open. We entered dark catacombs and he forcefully grabbed my wrist, "You must obey my every word, Monsieur," he warned as we walked down the stairs, and up a strange passage, "There are traps everywhere. You mustn't touch anything or we might perish."

Obeying by his word was paramount and I followed closely as we walked against cold, bricked walls. I saw a light and then my dear Christine. She was dressed in what looked like a wedding gown and I had to get to her, "Monsieur, no! It is the!-"

We fell into this odd sort of dungeon and I cursed myself multiple times. There was sand over the floor and the Persian became wide-eyed. There was a small window and Christine was dressed in a white gown, but she wasn't happy. She cried - tears of joy or sorrow, but I couldn't tell. No, it was pity. She was pitying him.

Then, a loud, piercing alarm filled the room and the Persian looked to me angrily, "You fell for the trap, Monsieur!"

I have failed - that stuck in my mind. Then, unbearable heat set in. It was worse than the summers in Africa during my naval journies. I saw a puddle of water and rushed for it, but the Persian shook his head, "It's all an illusion, Monsieur. Just stay calm."

"Stay calm?! We're going to die!"

What I had originally thought was a wall turned into a mirror and the heat became worse. But I heard a voice - Christine's voice, "Raoul!"

She was crying for me. I heard her soft sniffles and admired the sound, but then I heard his voice, "Turn the scorpion, pledge yourself to me and save your precious boy or turn the grasshopper and the entire Paris Opera is blown to bits!"

"No, Christine! Don't do this!" she deserved better - she needed tender love, not this monster, "You're better than this! Don't waste your life!"

Silence. Irritable, piercing, saddening silence. What was she going to do? What was he doing to her, "It's useless, Monsieur," the Persian whispered, "Say your last prayers. This will be our last few moments."